Morpheus
by IvyXLacrimosa
Summary: He entrusted her with his heart, and Orihime had a feeling he knew exactly what he was doing when he did it. [UlquiHime, One-Shot]


**Title: **Morpheus

**Fandom: **Bleach

**Pairing: **UlquiHime [Ulquiorra X Orihime]

**Characters: **Orihime, Ulquiorra, Ichigo [Mentioned], Grimmjow [Mentioned]

**Words: **2,600

**Genres: **Horror, Drama, Romance, Angst, Action

**Warning: **Mindfuckery and symbolism. That is all. Oh, and a lack of editing.

* * *

Her difficulties were the least of anyone's concern, and Orihime was okay with that. There were so many much more important things to be worrying about, and she wasn't at the center of them— much to her dismay sometimes when she was forced to watch her friends from afar— so she had long since learned to try to solve her own problems.

Frustratingly enough, she couldn't most of the time. Ichigo and the others grew, leaving her behind, and she was vulnerable enough to be kidnapped by Aizen, and as much as she wanted to, she doubted she'd ever be a frontline battler.

As much as it pained her, she understood that she was both a literal and metaphorical shield for her friends. If it gave them confidence and an advantage in a fight to the death, then she wanted to learn to be in multiple places at once.

Not that that was possible, but Orihime had always been a wishful thinker.

That was why her time in Las Noches with was so scarring, because even if she could sit in that room and not be physically affected, it affected her mentally. She was left to think, think about death, her friends, what she considered right and wrong in the world, and, most strongly, the Arrancar that inhabited the same building as her.

More often than not, when she would watch the door to her room, sitting in the shadow that wasn't touched by the painfully bright moonlight shining through the room, and watch shadows go by. They weren't often, and they weren't extremely noticeable, just subtle, quiet shadows peeing under her door, but they would occupy her.

She'd attempt to guess who the footsteps belonged to, because only Arrancar, and mainly Espada, used the hall that she was kept in. She knew that the isolation was on purpose. Yet, sometimes she'd guess right, especially when they crossed each other in the halls and ended up conversing, quietly so she could only recognize the tone of their voice.

As time went on, the overwhelming heaviness of Hueco Mundo's atmosphere became familiar to her—because even though she normally couldn't sense much Reiatsu, the Hollow world was simply overwhelming—she began to sense things beneath it. Little differences in air pressure as they walked by began to distinguish them, whether or not she knew their names.

One's like Grimmjow—the wild blue haired one she'd healed upon her arrival—we're most notable, which was to say, _Espada _as a whole were entirely unique from everyone else in Aizen's fortress.

The snarling, irritable Arrancar's Reiatsu felt similar to what she remembered of Ichigo's, and even that terrifying Captain of the Eleventh Division. It was unrestrained, potent, and, most notably, fiery. Though, compared to Ichigo's soothing warm, being near Grimmjow was like standing next to an open, blazing fire, unrestrained and hungry.

Yet, there was compassion under it, or at least, enough morals to give as much as given. Saving her in return for her saving his arm was a rather unexpected trade, but Orihime remembered it vividly none the less.

Those like the two who had invaded her room in an attempt to kill her—deterred only by Grimmjow's unexpected arrival—had Reiatsu that flared with life, but it lacked the individuality and color that the Espada had, however corrupt it was on occasion. Yet, they were memorable as well, Menoly and Loly, in their own way. Loly especially, with her resentful glares and prideful death.

Surprisingly enough to Orihime, what was common in Hueco Mundo and Las Noches was not cold apathy, but fiery instinctual recklessness. It contradicted both her mental image of what the Espada were, and what she believed Aizen's greatest weapons would act like.

Funny enough, the only person who fit that description was the oddest out of them all.

Even from the beginning, it was easiest for her to tell him apart from the others, disregarding the fact that she'd met him first _and_ that he was technically her keeper. Those two things weren't even necessary to distinguish him from the rest of the Espada and Arrancar.

His Reiatsu was _that_ unique. It was heavy, concentrated, and, most notably, cold. It hung off of him, especially when he was close, and if she were too compare it to anything, she'd call it a heavy fog, impossible to dispel or see through.

Compared to the dry fire that was both within the inhabitants and monochrome landscape of Hueco Mundo, Ulquiorra Cifer was both a welcomed change and terrifyingly unpredictable presence.

She'd never really thought deeply about these differences—_his looks, attitude, energy_—until after she'd spent some time confined to her room within Las Noches, but she quickly came to several conclusions, and was left with hundreds more questions.

He was the Cuarto—_Fourth—_Espada, highly ranked, highly regarded (or disregarded, when it came to Grimmjow) among the Arrancar of the Hollow's world. He was quite obviously Aizen's number one choice for everything, likely due to his single-mindedness and calm unshakable mind. It was actually kind of expected, because, out of all of the Espada, Ulquiorra was both the most like Aizen, and most likely to betray him.

This she'd figured out early on, even if it was just a guess. Something about his emotionless loyalty evoked a sort of nervousness in her, as if she was watching a patient and experienced hunter wait to trap its prey. It was in his attitude toward everyone, Aizen and Hollow alike, and his lack of empathy for anything.

Her curiosities, however, only bloomed from then on out, because, for the life of her, she couldn't seem to fear him or figure out why she didn't fear him. It was an unusual sort of Juxtaposition, a girl known for her warmth and a monster—_man_—known for his apathy. It was morbid fascination, really.

It caused her to stare, unrelentingly, even if he noticed and stared back. She found it odd how someone so expressionless, blank, and empty could have the brightest eyes she'd ever seen. It was the most noticeable thing about him, for he was average in height, with typical length black hair. Take away the paleness of his skin, unblemished like fresh snow, and the mask curling around the left side of his face, his eyes were his strongest feature.

A green so bright that they were almost poisonous, they were practically glowing, blank and containing thin pupils, with a sharp intelligence to them. At first, she imagined that they were corroding through her every time their gazes met, eating at her thoughts.

As time went on, she grew used to his gaze, and it looked less like poison and more like a sudden, vibrate overgrowth, spring breaking through the winter of his features. He never held any sort of expression, at least not one she could read, in his eyes, but they shone as if he were expressing the deepest thoughts.

The lines curling down his face past the lids, the same lurid green as his eyes, made her think that his emotions that weren't expressed, because surely _something_ other than cold thoughts resided in him, were running down his cheeks, tears unable to flee and resound.

He was observing, always watching with those eyes, watching her, watching Ichigo, just a slight tilt to his head to display cold curiosity. She found it to be a step in the right direction, that maybe he was feeling something under his cold exterior.

When she'd watched his icy cold Reiatsu, colored green—as if it were a living organism—burst through Ichigo's chest, her horror had been single-minded, uncertain, and disbelieving. He'd turned, and Orihime had felt his gaze on her, as if to see what her reaction had been.

She'd wanted to strike him, hit him, and beat him for that. It was the first time she'd felt such a violent emotion, even though she'd been given plenty reasons in the past months to feel angry. There was something about his complete and utter disregard for what he struck down that made her thoughts burn.

When Ichigo had risen, skin pallid and oh so similar to Ulquiorra's, with that brightly contrasting orange hair she was so fond of, she wanted to run. As unusual as she thought the Cuarto Espada was, she thought it to be something on one should ever be similar too, like a curse that no one deserved.

As she'd watched Ulquiorra fade, dust glinting green occasionally under the unwavering solemn light of the moon, she'd wanted to cry. She wasn't sure why, he was Espada after all, and had almost killed too many of her friends to count, decimating them without thought or regret.

Watching those bright eyes light up with an epiphany moments before he faded entirely, gone to them, returned to Hueco Mundo's endless dust, she felt a glimmer of something in her chest, fluttering hesitantly. He'd reached out, hands still long and curled and clawed, reaching toward her.

_"Ah, I see. This, right here in my hand. This is a heart?" _

His eyes, sparked full of understanding and life, had given him a more expressive face than she'd ever seen before, lips parted as he reached farther, legs unable to carry him. He didn't sound worried, he sounded pleased and resigned, as if, after searching so long, he'd accomplished what he'd set out to do.

With half-lidded, smoldering eyes and a blank expression, he watched as she moved forward, reaching. As she neared, he sighed quietly, and, without any other sort of grand words, faded into oblivion, leaving Orihime more devastated than her friends could understand.

Weeks later, he still lingered in her mind.

The first time she dreamed of him, it was a replay of her memory, Ichigo and Ishida gone, and only the watchful eye of the moon nearby. The shadows and black and white outlined striking shapes on his face, but his eyes gleamed, untouched through it all. She swears that the first time she dreamed, her fingers managed to brush his warm palm before he faded.

Cold sweat and gasps filled her tiny apartment, and Orihime was glad for once that she lived alone, because explaining the dream to anyone else was something she could not accomplish. She couldn't even wrap her own head around it.

She thought that maybe it was her own way of remembering him. She thought that she might feel guilty that she couldn't save him. Her, who was supposed to be able to reject God, bringing back limbs, healing weeping gashes and weaving together stringy tendons. Her gag reflex had died at the beginning of the Winter War, especially after she'd watched Grimmjow mercilessly rip Loly apart and crush Menoly, because her ability healed, but didn't destroy the blood staining her floors or the smell of copper hovering in the room.

_Why would you want to save him though? _Her mind whispered in contradiction. _What's so special about him, why do you feel so obligated, so attached, to a monster—_man—_ that nearly killed Ichigo and worked for a madman? Why do you overlook the hole in his chest and the number branded on him?_

Despite her inner turmoil, the dreams continued on.

The second time, he was as she had first met him, meticulous white clothing, uninjured, and curious looking. She was seated in the back of her room, opposite of where he stood in the open doorway. White light, again, the unwavering presence of the moon, so similar in melancholic looks to him, watched over them, curling around his features.

For an immeasurable amount of time, they'd sat unmoving, eyes burning into each other. Her heart stuttered and fumbled in her chest, uncertainty and anticipation burning under her skin. Then he'd moved forward.

Graceful and quiet, his steps lulled her into motionless silence, and, when he stood over her she barely managed to tilted her head back to keep eye contact with him. She licked her lips, and for the first time, his eyes moved away from hers, green orbs watching her mouth move.

He then reached out, fingers hovering over her collarbone in a familiar motion, but instead of mocking her, it felt like he was reassuring her. She huffed out a heavy sigh, and his eyes locked with hers again, the dream fading away.

She wondered if anyone ever noticed how restless and tired she was on the days that the dream clouded her sleep. It was obvious to her, how blank and unfocused her stare was, how warm her chest was.

The third time was the last time the dream changed. After that, it repeated the same way every time.

Well, that's a lie. The scenery changed often, anywhere from her room in Hueco Mundo to Soul Society itself, to her humble little apartment.

What stayed the same was his appearance, and what occurred in the dream.

His Reiatsu no longer felt cold and like an inescapable haze. It was more like a cool caress, calming in its slowness and sureness, breaking through wildfires to ground her when she thought her head was going to explode with the stress of simply _living_.

For the longest time, her eyes would be closed, simply feeling his presence around her. It was still unlike any Reiatsu she'd ever felt, cool, calm water in comparison to storms and tidal waves. Power still lurked beneath the surface, but there was a benevolence to it that she'd never felt from Ulquiorra. It was startling and wonderful all at the same time.

When she became brave enough to open her eyes, she'd first see the scenery—_a garden filled with falling cherry blossoms, her kitchen covered in scattered dishes_—before turning to the source of that addicting energy.

He'd be looking at something else when she'd see him. Yet, if she had seen his eyes with his changed appearance, there was a chance she'd go into shock. As it was, she nearly startled every time she saw an average boy, still pale but more life filled now, with gleaming black locks like silk, unblemished by the remnants of a Hollow mask or the lines painted on his face.

Dressed in normal clothes, it was like she was near a human, or, by a far stretch of course, a Shinigami.

Then he'd look up, and her breath would catch, stalling both her lungs and heart. Warm green eyes stared into hers, compassionate, vivacious and wonderfully happy. They were the same color, but now it was like spring had come on fully, shining brightly under clear weather, welcoming and eager.

His lips would quirk, a smile more like a smirk, and her hands would tremble, clasping together with some unknown energy humming under her skin. That smile was beautiful, no less cunning and confident than it had been when it wasn't a smile but a blank frown.

The first thing and last thing she'd hear in the dream was his laughter.

Oh god, that laughter. Like the low rumbling of bells at a church, it was smooth, rolling, and overwhelming. It drew her in and placed a smile on her face, even as a watery haze covered her eyes, obscuring her vision of his shaking shoulders.

It was a joyous sound, and, as she woke up crying, it would echo in her ears for hours.

The dreams never stopped, always filled with his smile and laughter, and, even though no one ever knew, they affected her greatly.

Orihime had a feeling that is what Ulquiorra was going for.

He was unforgettable, heartfelt, and, most importantly, victorious.


End file.
